Wednesday, February 08, 2012
I dream big. I dreamed last night that I sold my novel. Simon and Schuster had scheduled a meeting early in the morning, and they put me up in a fancy penthouse hotel room in Soho the night before, which was interesting since I live blocks away from that neighborhood. I pretended that I lived in the hotel room, which was several times bigger than my apartment, counting the square-footage in the fire escape. That night, I went grocery shopping, filled the fridge with fresh produce, and cooked dinner for my friends using the stainless steel Viking oven that I had stumbled across. I opened the large loft windows, exposing my view to other windows in the sky. This is when I got the first taste of real wealth in New York City. These large windows exposed me to happy families dancing around their spacious apartments—the kind of apartments that you look for in Halstead Realty, just because. Because, that’s what you look for when you dream. Then suddenly, their windows went static. I had been watching TV screens, and these happy memories I was growing envious of were actually pre-recorded, rehearsed memories that didn’t really exist. I woke up promising to finish this novel for myself and to dream big, stay foolish, but stay humble.